


Laws of Illusion

by spiced_1990



Category: Spice Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26115670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiced_1990/pseuds/spiced_1990
Summary: Prompted by lyrics from Sarah McLachlan's record, Laws of Illusion. A narrative.
Relationships: Melanie Brown/Geri Halliwell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Awakenings

**_With shooting stars and hopeful hearts our worlds collide_ **

**_And so we rushed to fill each other in_ **

She’s intoxicating. Her hands slide over your hips as she reaches for the glasses above the fridge, and your stomach clenches. Not something new. Since the first day you’d met, it had been different. You’ve always kissed your friends, been free and easy with the physicality of friendship, but Mel is more, greater than. 

“Gonna stand there like a statue, Geri, or come over here and drink with me?”

The alcohol makes things easier, makes you feel braver. You stand behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, and when she leans back and sighs contentedly, you let your fingertips trail along her flat stomach. 

“Never thought I’d find someone to be my evil twin,” Mel says, her laugh a low chuckle that makes you wonder if the sound can be bottled up and sold. You know the other girls sometimes get annoyed with how in sync you are, the way the world narrows to you two alone, but it excites you. Turns you on. You press a kiss to her neck, nip at it just to feel the way your best friend tenses under you. 

* * *

**_So wicked and I know I should go slow but it's not in me to wait_ **

**_'Cause I'm alive and I'm on fire_ **

You’ve been thinking about it lately, remembering the way her tongue had felt tangled with yours and wondering what it might feel like somewhere else. Last week, you’d woken up with your hand in your panties, a fuzzy image behind your eyelids of Mel’s long fingertips instead of your own, and it had taken long moments to realise what was and wasn’t real. You’ve dreamt about other women too, but never this graphic, never so often that you’re asking yourself new questions. 

She crawls into bed with you one night, both of you absolutely smashed and horny from spending the early hours of the morning dancing against each other at a club. You’re hopeless at it, had hooked an arm around Mel to keep her arse against you as an anchor. A cheeky grin and a wonderfully wet kiss had been shared before you’d run out into the dawn, palms sweaty and cheeks flushed. 

“We don’t have to,” Mel says, stripping off her top and helping you shove your skirt down to your ankles. Your tiny bedroom is dark and untidy, but the bed is just big enough for her to roll you over, start grinding up against your naked heat (when she’d discovered that you weren’t wearing underwear in the club, she’d called you a filthy cunt and you’d whimpered). 

“Please,” you cry. 

When you wake up the next morning, she’s still there and you can feel her warm, steady breath against the back of your neck. 

* * *

**_Here I go again, back into your arms_ **

**_What ever happened to resolve?_ **

You keep promising yourself that it needs to end, that it’s not healthy or right or good for anyone. The other girls have grown used to the way you sometimes veer from screaming at each other to absolute silence behind a locked door, and you know that they’ve got questions about the two of you. You have questions too. 

Every couple of weekends, it’s just you and Melanie in the house. Sometimes you like to go out and party like teenagers until the sun comes up, but on other occasions, you stay home, talking for hours about your plans for the group, about silly things too. You tell her secrets you haven’t told anybody else and when she trusts you with one of her own, you find yourself smothering her in affection, her ineffectual protests swallowed by your kisses.

“How are you so responsive?” you say to her one night, stretched out on her bed upstairs, a hand casually caressing the sensitive skin just under her left breast. She’d only come a few minutes earlier (you’re not ready to put your mouth on her so you usually get her off with fingers or your body against hers) but, as always, she’s ready for more. “It’s like a light switch.” 

“You comparing me amazing tits to a fucking outlet, Ginge?” She rolls over, covering her chest with her hands. “No more goodies for you, you bitch.” 

* * *

**_You always come 'round after your good friend love_ **

**_Has gone and run aground_ **

You know you’re being a jealous cow, that you have no right at all, but the sight of Mel B cuddled up on the couch (the way she’s caressing his thigh suggests things will be moving to the bedroom soon enough) with another boring, too jacked man has your stomach feeling unsettled and heart heavy. 

“This is Bryan,” she’d crowed earlier, one hand on his arse and the other around his waist. “He dances. Superb sense of rhythm.”

Not like you. 

Neither of you have ever tried to define what you have and judging by the revolving door of partners, you don’t think Mel would even want to. It’s a blessing in disguise, you tell yourself. Your mother would have a heart attack if she knew.

Two weeks later, she comes to you at night, bra-less and without apology. “Bryan says I’m _‘too much’_ ,” she blurts out. “Whatever that’s meant to mean.”

You wonder whether telling her that you feel like her second choice (and that you don’t like it) would sound too needy, _too much_ in an entirely different way. 

* * *

**_But when I'm lying here with you and the whole world's out of tune_ **

**_You're the one and only voice that makes things right_ **

Her fingers skirt your ribcage and you resist the urge to suck in, to flatten your belly as much as possible. You hate seeing it, the evidence of how fucked up things are, but you’ve also always been comfortable in your nudity and it creates an awkward tension that you just hope none of your sexual partners have noticed. Judging by Mel’s delighted hum as her tongue flats against your inner thigh (you still shiver every time), she hasn’t. Which hurts as much as it’s a relief.

You’ve wanted to tell her for a long time now, feel like a liar keeping it back. But she’s beautiful and confident and you know she won’t understand. 

It’s the third hotel in as many days, and the third bed as well. This one has small pink petals on the duvet and if they were real, you’d want to tuck one of the flowers behind Mel’s ear. Instead, you tug at her hair as her tongue ring comes into contact with your clit, letting out a too loud groan that has her smiling against your pussy. 

“You gotta relax, Ginge. Let me get you there,” she urges. “You’re so pretty.” One of her hands is firm on your hips, holding you down with the kind of control you aspire to. The soft flesh reddens under the pressure and you can’t take your eyes off the way she worships you. “Let me love you.”

* * *

**_Can't you see me standing here?_ **

**_Alive and well with all the hope_ **

The sand is whiter than any you’ve seen before, and the way Mel frolics across it, jumping over the small waves curling along the shore, has you smiling in a way that you haven’t in what feels like forever (you’re exhausted and unsure and almost ready to leave). When she calls you over, you join her, holding her hand and laughing as you both wade deeper in. Her bikini doesn’t leave anything to the imagination and neither does yours but that doesn’t matter here. The beach is semi-private, abutting the hotel you’re booked into for the next few days, and there’s only a small smattering of people nearby, none of whom are paying either of you any mind. 

You’d chosen Fiji on a whim, don’t regret it. Two nights have passed and it’s felt like it used to, the two of you against the world, co-conspirators and lovers and all the other unspoken words that sometimes run through your mind on the darker days. 

“C’mere,” she says to you, up to her knees in the water. “I’ve missed you.”

Your arms come around her, the familiar softness of her skin a balm. It’s been a few months since you’ve really had any time together, boyfriends and the group and the relentless schedule proving more important than the ever-fraying bond between you. 

“I know you miss me too.”

She kisses you, and the hopeful fluttering of your heart is impossible to ignore.


	2. Out Of Tune

**_Through the years we'd had it all, the midnight whispers, the midday calls_ **

**_This house of cards it had to fall_ **

Swinging between numbness and feeling so much you could shatter into pieces is uncomfortable, you tell your journal early one morning as you shakily light your second fag. You haven’t answered any of Mel’s calls yet (she refuses to leave a message after the first time and you hate how much you want to hear her voice) and at night you sometimes think about what you might say to her, whether you would blame her or pretend this decision was about something else altogether. You want to be honest with her but even in your dreams, the words won’t come out.  _ I hate you. I love you. You didn’t need me. You left me first. _

It was inevitable, really, that it would come to this. For every moment spent in bed, giggling together and learning each other’s bodies, you’ve earned a night alone, curled into a ball, lonely and bitter. You deserve nothing more. Sometimes you create alternate lives for the two of you, ones where Jimmy never joined the tour, ones where you’re as brave and capable as Mel thinks you are, ones where you don’t wait for her to fall asleep before sharing your deepest secret. 

One day you see her on television, all of them, and there’s no gap. They’re happy and confident and the choreography is more complicated than you could’ve handled. She doesn’t pick up when you call. “Fuck you then, Melanie,” you say to the answering machine. “Fuck you.”

* * *

**_I hope there's forgiveness_ **

**_In the distance between us_ **

The hotel lobby is grand, gold and marble and people walking around with purpose and ambition. You’re used to places like this but part of you wishes you weren’t, that you didn’t have any cynicism about fame and power, just the naivety and joy of youth. The first time you and Mel had been given the most expensive suites, she’d laughed as only she does, loud and full and so warm that you felt it bubbling up inside you as well. 

Today, she greets you at the door with a kiss to the cheek, looks you up and down with a slight frown on her face. “You know you can talk to me, right, if you ever need to,” she says, and if you were as honest as you wish you were, you’d tell her everything before even closing the door behind you. Instead, you let yourself trail a hand down her arm, your fingers capturing her slim wrist. 

“You need to stop getting hotter,” you blurt out the moment you both sit down, startling yourself and what you thought was at least some measure of self-control. 

She equivocates, makes sure to tell you that you’re beautiful as well, even slaps your arse for good measure. The banter and touches between you all afternoon as you catch up are familiar but there’s a carefulness about it too, like if you make a single wrong move, one of you is going to walk out and never come back again. 

“I hope you can forgive me,” you say to her as the sun starts to go down. Mel’s brow furrows at your words and she bites her lip. You don’t think you want to know what words she’s not saying. “One day,” you add. 

* * *

**_You call and I come running, I can sense the flood before it breaks_ **

**_And I'd do anything to dry your tears, to let you know you're safe_ **

Later, you think about how you reacted, what you should’ve said and done instead. In the moment, it’s instinct that guides you, instinct and a surge of hatred towards him and love towards her that frightens you. 

It’s been three days since you found her broken and naked on the floor of the shower, two days since you last tried to convince her that she could tell you anything at all, that you were there for her. She’d laughed it off, the set of her jaw and the shaking of her hands the only things betraying her. 

It’s one o’clock in the morning when you text her, a short ‘are you ok?’ because it’s the only thing on your mind and you know she won’t be sleeping. 

Mel knocks on your door ten minutes later, wrapped in a fluffy white dressing gown that makes her look frustratingly adorable. She sheds it, lays down in front of you and pulls your bare arms tightly around you (she always liked being the big spoon but you enjoy an occasional role reversal, always have). When she turns towards you moments later, eyes dark and hungrily seeking your mouth, you don’t stop her, don’t remind her that she’s married or that you don’t do this anymore. 

When she begs, you say yes.  _ Of course I will, of course I do _ . 

* * *

**_Time passes us by and the way we love changes_ **

**_And we're learning to waltz through the waves like everyone_ **

You’re both calmer in a lot of ways, you think, maybe the natural result of age or motherhood or even some actual introspection and self-improvement. You see it when you grab hold of her hand as you enter into the posh restaurant, the way she lets you lead the way to the back of the room, dimly lit and close to private. You don’t talk about much (definitely nothing too important - you’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears) during the meal and you try to ignore the clenched fist in your gut when you catch her carefully taking note of how much you’re eating. You’re better now, you want to say to her, totally fine, thank you very much. It’s been years, after all, and it has the darker, fucked up part of your brain questioning her earlier compliments. 

You end up in a tiny pub a few streets away from the hotel Mel’s staying in, drinking shots like you’re in a crowded, sweaty nightclub and it’s 1995 all over again. Occasionally, you see the mostly male clientele giving the two of you strange looks, but you’re past caring. You don’t see your best friend as often as you want and she’s leaving soon, leaving the UK and you for her other life. 

“You’re so gorgeous in black,” she says to you, her fingers reaching for yours over the table. “And leather.” She raises her eyebrow and growls, and it makes you snort. 

“Incorrigible flirt,” you reply. “Not sure why anyone thought marriage would cure it.” Her face darkens at your words, and you regret it immediately. You give her a soft kiss. Forgive me. 

* * *

**_And all comes down to leaving it all behind and moving on_ **

**_To the rivers of love_ **

You haven’t let yourself want this for a long time, but now that it’s finally here, that you’ve embraced what today means, you’re nervous as fuck. Your gaze flicks to where your mama stands in the corner of the room, her arm around Bluebell and the corner of her mouth curved up in pleasure. She’s wanted this even more than you, though not the institution so much as the man, you think wryly to yourself. 

Smoothing a hand down your gown, you consider yourself in the mirror, approving of what you see. You look the part and more importantly, you think you’re starting to feel it. Melanie thinks you’re a fraud, has made no bones about the fact that even though she’s glad you’re happy, she has concerns over you taking this step. If you’d been with her in person when she said it, you suspect you would’ve laughed in her face at the irony. 

“Ready, darling?”

When you’re standing there saying your vows, you’re confident, sure, luxuriating in the way Christian’s eyes sparkle at you, the warmth and calm you see gazing back at you. You want to feel that way, too. 

You don’t allow Mel’s text to ruin the night, force yourself to avoid reading the message until the next day when you’re contentedly nibbling on a slice of toast in bed. “Sorry i wasnt ther. I was busy. Love u.”

It’s a lame excuse and you both know it, but there are some conversations you suspect neither of you will ever have. 


	3. Epilogue: Sweet Surrender

**_Bring on the wonder, bring on the song_ **

**_I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long_ **

She calls you on the evening of your twelfth anniversary, and if it were anyone else you might think it was accidental. But she’s deliberate and still occasionally cruel, and you’d told her about the plans you had for a romantic dinner at home. And she likes ruining your peace of mind, you think to yourself, leaving the dining room. You’re not sure exactly when you became so bitter and resentful, whether it was when you first found out about Christian’s ‘slip’ a few years ago or when Melanie went on television and simultaneously explained how long your ‘thing’ had lasted while publicly and proudly pronouncing her love for her new girlfriend. 

“Having a good evening?” she asks unapologetically, bluntly. “I’ve been missing you.” 

As always, things run hot and cold between the two of you, never quite finding the stability you’d once longed for. It’s frustrating, still hungering for some of the unpredictability and exhilaration of the youth you shared while wishing things weren’t as fucked up as they are. “I was, Melanie, yes. Past tense.” 

She ignores the unhappiness in your voice, blasts past it with all the tact she doesn’t have. “I just broke up with Peta. Thought you’d want to know.” 

And the bad thing, the worst thing, is that you do. Every time this happens, whoever is at fault, you hurt for her. She’s never wanted the safe life you lead but a part of you has always hoped that might change. Even if it’s not you she’s changing for, another thing you had once hoped, back when you were idealistic and besotted and not the shadow of yourself people think you now are. 

“So. That’s all. I guess - ”

You glance towards the entrance way of the smaller room you’re in, consider your options and make an impulsive decision. “Please don’t hang up. Not yet. I want to see you.” 

Mel laughs, a slight manic edge to it that has you feeling restless. “I’m in Leeds, darling.” 

“Facetime. Give me a minute and I’ll call you back.” 

You quickly apologise to Christian, not feeling as badly as you ought to, not explaining why you’re cutting the meal short. You say sorry less than you used to, are proud of the progress you’ve made since you started going to therapy again last year. 

Her face lights up when you call back, now safely ensconced in a spare room, one leg tucked under the other on the chaise lounge. She looks gorgeous but tired, and you approvingly take note of the smile lines on Mel’s face. You’d never say it out loud and she’ll always be beautiful regardless, but you not so secretly hate when she goes in for procedures that alter nature’s course. Today she’s on her stomach in bed, a position that should squash her breasts but seems to show them off even more than usual. Cruel world. 

“I got bored,” she offers, a small semi-apologetic smile on her lips. “Bad habit.”

“About two and a half years, though, right? I’m proud of you,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound as condescending as you suspect it might. “The girls are okay?”

“Of course. They’re as adaptable as their mama, you know that. I think Angel was surprised it didn’t happen sooner, honestly. She barely reacted when I told her.” 

You roll your eyes and tug a blanket over your lap. “You don’t always adapt well, Melanie. This is the second year in a row you’ve ‘accidentally’ called on my anniversary.” 

“I don’t think I ever claimed it was an accident but you’re welcome to tell yourself that, Ginge. If you need to. So did he spoil you?”

Of course he did. All the right words, all the right gifts. You demur, mumble something under your breath about the roses you’d woken up to. Romantic. Expected. Ever so slightly dull. “Are you coming back to London soon?”

“You miss me too?”

It shouldn’t need to be said. More than thirty years since you first laid eyes on her, the pull is still there, the awful truth that you need her in your life more than almost anything or anyone else. You roll your eyes again. “Your ego is still enormous, Miss Brown.” 

She props her hands up under her chin, framing her face in a way that draws attention to the warmth of her dark eyes, the sharp lines of her jaw. “Do you think you’ll ever end it?” she asks abruptly and you resist the urge to immediately end the call. You know what she means and the fact that you do doesn’t bode well for the conversation your former bandmate clearly intends to have. “You’re bored, Geri. And boring. Don’t you  _ feel _ it?”

“Not everybody wants your life, Mel. I never did, you know that.”

“I thought I knew  _ you _ , and I thought we were on the same page. Don’t you miss the thrills? The excitement?”

“You literally sent me photos of your new goats the other day. And a fucking daffodil. Don’t act high and mighty with me. I’m happy. Content. He loves me.” 

Mel scoffs, adjusts her position on the bed so she’s on her side. You feel accused, feel your face starting to flush. Breathe. You don’t need to take the bait. 

“He  _ does _ .”

The brunette holds her hands up in surrender. “You’re defensive,” she says. A fact. And it angers you.

“What, you don’t think it’s possible that he maybe actually likes me? As I am? You think I’m that unlovable?”

“Of course you’re not, you idiot. But he doesn’t know you, Geri. Not like I do.”

Another deep breath. Shoulders back. Firm grip on the thighs. Nails. “He lives with me. Sleeps with me. Fifteen years. I’ve told him everything. We don’t have secrets. He’s there for me. He knows me.”

Mel jabs at the screen, her eyes bright. Burning. “Not like I do. Not all of you. You changed for him. I never asked you to change. I wouldn’t have wanted that.”

You deflate. 

“I miss you,” she repeats, and it means something different this time.

“I’m not sure I can be her anymore,” you admit quietly, more to yourself than her. “I think she’s gone.” 

She doesn’t answer you for a long time, just stares through the screen. You watch her watching you, trying to ignore the rising panic in your chest. You never used to feel so fretful so often and you hate it, especially because you’re also more calm and content than you’ve ever been. It shouldn’t work like that. 

Eventually you break. “What do you miss?” You want to know, need to know, wanting to indulge in the memories and the possibilities that had once been there. Even if just for a moment.

“You used to look at me like I was everything, you know,” Mel says, her voice filled with awe and warmth. “I loved that. And how responsive you were. Eager. Hungry. Willing.”

Your nose screws up a little, slightly disappointed. Because of course she’s talking about sex. You’d wanted to think otherwise at the time but that’s what it had been for Melanie. They’d had their friendship, of course, and that had been real and genuine and meaningful, but the relationship, the nights they’d spent together? It had meant  _ something _ to her but not the  _ same _ thing. To this day, apparently. 

Mel rolls over to her front again, head tilting to the side. The material of her shirt stretches over her boobs and your eyes drop momentarily. “Geez, it was a compliment, Geri, don’t get that look on your face. We had fun, you don’t have to pretend otherwise. We were good together.”

Still clueless. You’d always been slightly confused as to why Mel insisted both publicly and privately that you were somehow still holding something back about why you’d left the band. It had been obvious then and only more so in the years since. You’ve said it as many ways as you can without saying _ it _ , and yet. She raises an eyebrow, waiting. 

“I loved you.” Admitting it is the first step.

“I know,” she says, a smile passing over her face. Sunshine. “Daft cow. And I loved you. Still do, in spite of everything.” 

“But I _ loved _ you,” you say, trying to give the word the emphasis it needs, needing her to understand. Finally. “You’ve always known how much I feel things, Mel. How deeply. How could I NOT fall in love with you?” 

She stares at you.

“I think it was inevitable.” You’re babbling now, because god knows, your nervous energy still has a tendency to result in filling up spaces with words, inane or otherwise. “I mean, I remember when I first saw you and it was like, wow, you know, how beautiful you were and charismatic and it was like nobody else existed, you know what I mean? You remember. How we could just - ”

“You were in love with me,” Mel finally says, interrupting, a strange flat affect to her voice. “Like  _ in _ love. With me.” 

“When we were, you know, sleeping together,” you clarify. “I think. Well, I know. I don’t think I knew at the _ time _ but - ”

“Stop. Please.” Your hands are restless in your lap and you sit on them, trying to hold back, not make things worse. You can’t bring yourself to make eye contact but a quick glance shows you that Mel’s face is still, expressionless and god, why did you say that? You can feel the beginnings of regret creeping up on you and wonder if it would be okay to just hang up and then go and bury yourself in the garden. “You can’t say things like that, Geri. God.”

You swallow.

“Truly, though?” She’s leaning forward, her eyes searching yours, a look in them that you can’t quite decipher. 

“I don’t lie to you, Mel. I wouldn’t.”

Suddenly the screen goes black. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You go through the motions for the rest of the evening and if your husband has questions about what has you so rattled, he doesn’t ask them. The first message comes just after midnight, simply reads ‘Why?’

_ Why was I in love with you? Why did I finally admit it? Why have you never said anything before? _ You’re not sure what the question is, so you try to answer all of them as honestly as possible, feeling strangely guilty tapping out the words one by one while your husband’s arms rest gently around you. 

It’s two am when you finally say goodbye. Nothing is resolved and you’re not sure things ever will be. You wake up to Christian holding a cup of coffee in one hand and your phone in another. His face is dear to you, every wrinkle and crease and line, and you stretch your arms up to him, wanting a kiss, needing a dose of reality and a reminder of what you’ve worked so hard for. He takes a step back, holds out your phone, his voice calm. 

“You got a lot of texts while you were sleeping. The previews show up on your screen for some reason. I didn’t mean to look. But might be something to consider.”

Then he leaves. 

_ “I’ve been thinking about what u said all nite” _

_ “About u. & us” _

_ “Do u think it could of been diffrent” _

_ “I need to see u pls. Come and visit me.” _

_ “I have to say things to.” _

You squeeze shut your eyes, can’t keep reading, don’t even know if you want to know. You tuck your mobile phone in your back pocket, pat it gently. Safe. Later. Bluebell is coming home from university for the weekend and you have so many things to do. A room to prepare, meals to cook. There’s a load of laundry that needs doing. And you’ve been neglecting Shadow lately. The idea of a ride, of feeling the wind wild in your hair, suddenly appeals.

You need to run. Away from here. And maybe (your mind betrays you even when you don't want it to) eventually to her. 

The fields are waiting. 


End file.
